18 months ago (I wish I had been keeping track of the dates properly) I was in the mosquito patch masquerading as our garden talking to Andre about nothing.
In that absence an image blipped through my mind.
It was a woman waking up in a long metal cylinder. She didn't know where she was or what had happened but dragged herself from the tube to stand on a cold concrete floor. She felt odd, her head too heavy, a faint mechanical whine buzzed in her mind.
There was a mirror. She walked over and saw …
I wasn't sure what, but it terrified her.
Where was she? What had happened? I needed to find out.
I’ve had the image in my head everyday since then and this afternoon, in words 109,500 to 111,930 of Transmission, I wrote that scene.
What did she see in the mirror? Let's just say her horror was justified.